Miami Run

Chapter Fifteen

In terms of experience and expertise, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was acknowledged by the Family as one of the more deadly Warriors. Rikki practiced his martial arts skills daily. He would spend hours honing his ability to throw shuriken into logs positioned upright as makeshift targets. He continuously worked at increasing his mastery of the katana, his favorite weapon. Calloused and hardened by constant striking of hard surfaces, his hands and feet were employed in unarmed contests with other Warriors, friendly affairs with a lethal undertone. Only two Warriors could hold their own against Rikki in hand-to-hand combat: Blade and Yama.

Devoted to attaining the spiritual state of a perfected swordmaster, Rikki honed his reflexes ceaselessly. He recognized the critical importance of sharpening his reflexes to a razor readiness. When on a run, if he slacked off for just a second, it could mean the difference between life and death.

Warriors had to guard against being taken by surprise. Their reflexes must be equal to the unexpected developments of any given moment. Yet despite this fundamental knowledge, Rikki knew the impossibility of maintaining a perpetual state of hypersensitivity to imminent danger.

Invariably, inadvertently, when a Warrior least expected it, his guard would falter for a crucial interval. This happened to every Warrior at one time or another.

And now it happened to Rikki.

The martial artist was listening to his prisoner describe the interior of the compound, when from the north erupted the crack of gunfire. Rikki should have kept his eyes on the mercenary. He knew to do otherwise was a major blunder. He had trained and trained for just such a contingency.

But the gunshots sounded familiar despite the distance. Countless times he had heard Hickok fire the Pythons, and eventually, after years of familiarity, his ears could register the subtle difference between a Colt Python revolver and other firearms. So when he heard the gunshots, and when he realized that Hickok could be doing the firing, he carelessly, automatically, looked up, gazing to the north.

In that moment Sergeant Gehret struck.

The mercenary had babbled to save his life, supplying the details the man in black requested. Gradually, the intense pangs in his side and jaw had subsided to a tolerable level. His arms at his sides, he had meekly complied with the Warrior’s demands for information. But he was still, first and foremost, a seasoned, professional soldier, a mercenary of outstanding ability. He was not a man to permit an opportunity to pass untaken. And when he saw the Warrior glance to the north, he reacted with all the speed and efficiency at his command. He drove his right fist into the Warrior’s groin.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi doubled over, gasping, his genitals afire. Any normal man would have clutched his privates and been oblivious to all else. But Rikki was not normal; his self control, his inner discipline were supreme.

Instead of allowing the agony to control him, he controlled it. Instead of wheezing for air, at the mercy of his foe, he threw himself backwards to put distance between them, tottering, every iota of his concentration devoted to regaining domination of his body.

Sergeant Gehret pushed to his feet and closed on the Warrior, performing a side thrust kick to his opponent’s midsection.

Rikki stepped to the right, evading the kick, his fluidity reduced to a mere shuffle.

Eager to press the initiative, Gehret delivered a sweep kick at the Warrior’s legs.

The blow was telegraphed by the mercenary’s stance and muscle movement, and Rikki skipped out of range. His legs were responding better to his mental commands.

Gehret made a mistake of his own. He stepped back and assumed a fighting stance, and then he violated the cardinal rule of martial-combat: He spoke. “I’m going to stomp you into the ground, little man!”

Rikki said nothing. He tensed his muscles, gauging his recovery, waiting.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Gehret said. “You’re good. But I’m better.”

So saying, he attempted to connect with a front rising kick to the Warrior’s head.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was not so easily taken. His left forearm blocked the blow and he rotated, whipping his left elbow in nearly a full circle, adding the momentum of the swing to his inherent power. His elbow caught the mercenary on the nose and crushed the cartilage, flattening the nostrils.

Gehret tottered backwards, blood pouring from his nose.

Eager to aid Hickok and Blade, Rikki wanted to end the fight promptly.

He flicked his left foot in a side kick, his heel jamming into the mercenary’s right kneecap.

Gehret stiffened and cried out as his kneecap was shattered. He hobbled to the left and tripped over a log, going down on his left side at the crest of a four-foot-high drop off, the eroded vestige of a low mound.

Rikki pressed his advantage, moving to the mercenary’s right, seeking an opening.

The realization that he was hopelessly outclassed goaded Gehret to a desperate measure. He scrambled onto his good knee, his hands in front of his torso in a defensive posture. An unorthodox ploy was called for, a strategem the Warrior wouldn’t expect. But what? What was the one tactic the man in black would never anticipate? He riveted his eyes on the Warrior as the martial artist circled him, and an insane idea gave him a straw at which to clutch. He glanced at a stretch of sandy earth below the drop-off. The ground appeared slightly soggy and ideal for his purpose.

Rikki neared the edge of the drop-off to his enemy’s right.

It could work. Gehret told himself. He shifted his body to keep the Warrior in front of him, then used his uninjured knee as a crutch and retreated a yard.

The Warrior stepped along the rim of the drop-off, his back to the sandy patch below.

Gehret waited until the man in black was at the midpoint of the rim, then put his scheme into operation. He heaved erect and started to turn, pretending to flee, hoping the Warrior would take the bait.

Rikki, believing the mercenary was foolishly striving to get away, took a stride after his foe and lowered his guard slightly.

Which was precisely the reaction Gehret was counting on. He spun on his left leg and dived, his arms outstretched, tackling the Warrior, gripping the man in black about the ankles and propelling them both toward the rim.

And over the edge.

Gehret had planned it this way. He wanted them to fall to the ground below with him on top, pinning the Warrior beneath him. But he had failed to account for the Warrior’s reflexes.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi flipped his body to the right in midair, and both men landed on their sides. Rikki was surprised to feel the earth yield to the impact, to feel the dirt give out under his body. The soft ground absorbed the force of the drop, and a moist, sticky substance clung to his right ear and cheek. Although he was puzzled, he knew better than to take his eyes from the mercenary. And so it was that he observed a remarkable occurrence.

As his left shoulder sank into the sandy turf, Gehret’s eyes showed stark fear. He twisted and tried to push up, but his arms sank to the elbows in the mushy soil. “No!” he cried.

Bewildered by the sight of the mercenary sinking, Rikki remained motionless, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Gehret endeavored to sit up, but the motion only contributed to his rate of submersion. His arms disappeared to the shoulders, his legs to his knees. Frantic, he wrenched on his arms, his blood-stained face contorted in horror. He was sinking even faster. “No!” he shouted, looking at the Warrior with an expression of pathetic despair. “Help me!” he yelled. “It’s quicksand!”

At last Rikki understood.

Even as the damp sand touched his nose.